The soft glow of dawn seeped through the shutters of Rabocse Olbap's private quarters in Krakenport, casting golden streaks across the polished oak floor, their warmth mingling with the steam rising from his bathtub. The air was heavy with the soothing scent of lavender and eucalyptus, a rare indulgence after weeks of relentless scheming and labor.
Olbap sank deeper into the scalding water, its heat wrapping around his aching muscles like a gentle tide, easing the soreness from Popeye's brutal training sessions. A quiet sigh escaped his lips, his amethyst eyes half-closed as the steam curled upward, swirling like the mists of Brackmor's swamps. For the first time in days, he allowed himself to pause, the weight of five years of calculated ambition momentarily lifted, though his mind never fully stilled.
Since the Red Tide's meeting, Olbap had carved out time to rest, his body demanding respite after the grueling pace he'd set. Popeye's training was a daily ordeal, a self-imposed regimen that pushed Olbap to his physical limits. Popeye, with his towering frame and iron strength, turned their sparring into a punishing ritual, his fists landing with controlled force that left Olbap bruised but resolute.
Sometimes, Olbap suspected Popeye was merely relieving his boredom, but he endured, pouring every ounce of effort into the drills. If talent were measured from 1 to 10, Popeye was a resounding 10, his power growing with each fight, a force of nature. Olbap rated himself a 7—above average, his agility and cunning honed, but far from Popeye's raw might. Yet he persisted, knowing that in the cutthroat world of the Red Tide, strength was as vital as strategy.
As the water lapped gently against the tub's edges, its rhythmic slosh echoing in the quiet room, Olbap's thoughts drifted to his plan. Five years of maneuvering had brought him close to seizing the Red Tide, but one barrier remained: the third ingredient, a secret locked in Barrakuda Silco's grasp. Odoho's reports confirmed Silco performed the final step alone, in shadows no one could pierce.
Olbap had climbed the ranks, earning trust, but not enough to unlock that mystery. Force was his only path now, and it began with dismantling Silco's inner circle. Rane was the linchpin—Silco's eyes and ears, a master of espionage whose scarlet gaze missed nothing. Removing him would blind Silco, leaving him vulnerable, his network of informants crippled.
Olbap visualized the Red Tide as an ant colony: Silco the queen, his lieutenants the soldiers and workers. Rane and Jerry were the elite guards, Marlon, Graves, Vex, Tom, and Mot the sturdy backbone. The rest—collectors like Anna and Vanessa, their crimson hair a striking marker of their presence—were mere drones, no threat to Olbap's rise.
Killing the queen's most useful ant would sow chaos. Without Rane, Silco's intelligence network would falter. Marlon, Graves, and Vex, bound to sea patrols, couldn't be recalled without exposing Brackmor's defenses. That left Jerry, Tom, and Mot—formidable but manageable. Anna and Vanessa, recent promotions, lacked Silco's full trust, their loyalty untested in his eyes. Kael's neutrality kept him safe, and Popeye was Olbap's unwavering ally. By resuming deliveries, Olbap could stay above suspicion, his hands clean while his crew struck.
His travels to bolster Brackmor's economy had given him leverage. To rebuild the island, he'd journeyed beyond the South Blue, securing skilled builders and negotiating with merchants to bring goods—spices that stung the nose, fabrics soft as sea foam, tools gleaming with promise.
Those deals, sealed with hefty sums of beli, had forged connections with outsiders, informants like Johnny who could track movements. Selling information on Marlon, Graves, and Vex could lead to their demise in a staged ambush, clean and untraceable. But Olbap's thinking had evolved. Targeting the sea captains was too slow; Rane's elimination was the decisive first strike. Without him, Silco's control would weaken, and Olbap's intellect—sharper than any blade—would outmaneuver the rest.
A sharp knock broke his reverie—Popeye's signal, steady as a drumbeat. Olbap rose, water cascading from his lean frame, the steam clinging to his skin like a second shadow. He wrapped a towel around his waist, the cool air prickling his damp skin, and opened the door. Popeye stood there, a Den Den Mushi in his massive hand, its eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.
"Call for you, Olbap," Popeye said, handing over the snail-like device before stepping out, his heavy footsteps fading down the hall.
Olbap pressed the button, the Den Den Mushi's mouth twitching. "This is Olbap. Who's this?"
"Sorry to disturb you, boss. It's Johnny. Got urgent info you probably want," Jojnny said, his voice low, tinged with excitement.
"Info? I was about to call you for something, but go ahead," Olbap said, leaning against the wall, water dripping from his blonde hair onto the floor.
"A man in a navy-blue vest with a red scarf headed north alone. No clue who he is, but the tip's solid and that looks very suspicious. You want this?" Johnny asked.
Olbap's heart quickened. Rane. "Perfect. Name your price."
"Hah interested good, for you? 15,000 beli," Johnny said, a grin in his voice.
"I Make it 20,000. Close it," Olbap replied, his tone sharp.
"Done. He's moving north. Send the beli to the usual spot," Johnny said, the line going dead.
Olbap set the Den Den Mushi down, its eyes dimming. The opportunity was here—Rane, alone, vulnerable. He dressed swiftly, his white suit with purple accents fitting like armor, the purple pocket square a bold flourish. Moving to a wall, he pressed a hidden panel behind a painting of Krakenport's docks. The wood slid aside, revealing a secret arsenal: rows of Flintlocks, Mosquetes, cutlasses, daggers, and exotic blades glinting under the room's soft light. He selected a Mosquete and a cutlass, strapping them to his belt, their weight a reminder of the stakes.
Popeye returned, his eyes gleaming at the sight of the weapons. "What's the plan?"
"First move," Olbap said, his voice steady. "Rane's heading north alone. Gather Kael, Liro, and Toro. Meet at the northern gates in ten minutes, armed. Keep it quiet—make it look like an accident."
Popeye's grin was predatory. "Got it. You coming?"
"I stay here. Silco might call. I trust you to handle it," Olbap said, his amethyst eyes locking onto Popeye's.
Popeye nodded and left, his steps echoing with purpose. Olbap lingered, staring at the arsenal, his mind a storm of calculations. This is the beginning. One strike, and the Red Tide shifts.
Five Hours Later
The forest north of Krakenport was a labyrinth of shadows, its dense canopy filtering the moonlight into silver shards that danced on the mossy ground. The air was thick with the earthy scent of damp soil and decaying leaves, laced with the faint tang of salt from the nearby sea.
Rane moved like a specter, his lean frame gliding through the underbrush, his navy-blue vest and black pants blending with the gloom. His scarlet scarf trailed behind, a blood-red streak in the darkness, his massive shuriken—linked by chains—strapped to his back, their edges catching the faint light.
At 35, he was a master of solitude, his scarlet eyes scanning every rustle, every snap of a twig. Silco had sent him alone to retrieve a hidden stash of beli, a mission too sensitive for others. The task was simple, but a prickle of unease gnawed at him. For thirty minutes, he'd sensed pursuers—clumsy but persistent, their presence betrayed by the occasional crunch of leaves or the snap of a branch.
Rane's life had been a series of betrayals. Years ago, a pirate crew in the South blue had trained him, honing his skills as a spy, promising to take him to the world's greatest seas. But when the day came, they sailed without him, leaving him stranded in the South Blue and sending a group of bounty hunter for his head that valued 100k beli.Obviously, for Rane's strength and agility, this was easy to clear all the bounty hunter and realize that the others had betrayed him for money.
He'd wandered, a ghost in a world that ignored him, until Silco found him—a novice with a vision for the Red Tide. Together, they'd built an empire, Rane's distrust a shield against treachery. He'd amassed wealth—a sleek ship for escape, a luxurious home with sprawling gardens—but ambition burned brighter. Silco's leadership felt limiting; Rane dreamed of ruling, expanding beyond the South Blue's petty pirates. For now, he focused on the mission, but the pursuers' presence confirmed his fears. someone move for his dead.
He stopped in a clearing, the moonlight pooling like liquid silver, the ground soft with moss and scattered leaves. The forest was alive with sound—crickets chirping, distant waves crashing, the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Rane turned, his voice calm but edged with steel. "I know you're there. Thirty minutes of trailing me. Come out."
Silence hung heavy, then four figures emerged from the trees, their silhouettes stark against the moonlit backdrop. Each was distinct—different builds, clothes, hairstyles—but united in purpose, their melee weapons glinting. Rane recognized Popeye's massive frame and Kael's poised stance. Liro and Toro were familiar, faces glimpsed over the years, their presence now a threat.
"What's this about, Popeye, Kael? Didn't know you were pals," Rane said, his scarlet eyes piercing the gloom, his hands hovering near his shuriken.
"Nothing personal, Rane," Popeye said, his voice a low rumble, his double-headed hammer resting on his shoulder. "Got a job, and you're the target."
Kael nodded, his axe catching the moonlight. "Rare day—Popeye and I see to be good friend and coworker."
Rane's lips curled into a cold smile. "So, the little blonde finally moves after five years." He adjusted his scarf, covering his lower face, his stance shifting to battle-ready.
"You're sharp," Popeye said. "But you won't tell Silco. This ends here."
Rane chuckled, the sound icy. "Five years of loyalty to Silco, and now betrayal? I warned him about Olbap's ambition, but he thought a promotion would tame him." He tensed, the chains on his shuriken rattling softly.
"Enough talk," Liro said, his cutlass drawn, its blade gleaming. "Let's finish this."
The clearing erupted into chaos. Popeye charged, his hammer swinging in a devastating arc, the air screaming as it tore through. Rane leaped back, the blow cratering the earth, dirt and leaves exploding upward, the shockwave rustling the canopy.
He countered, unleashing a giant shuriken, its chains whistling as it spun toward Popeye. The giant blocked it with his hammer, sparks bursting like fireflies, the clang reverberating through the forest.
Liro darted in, his cutlass slashing with lethal precision, aiming for Rane's heart. Rane's reflexes—honed by years of survival—kicked in; he drew a small knife, parrying with a screech of steel, then delivered a swift kick to Liro's chest, the impact sending him stumbling back, leaves crunching under his boots.
Toro and Kael joined, Toro's spiked mace descending in a brutal overhead strike, the air humming with its weight, the spikes glinting like teeth. Kael's single-headed axe cleaved downward, the force splitting the wind, its blade a silver blur.
Rane crossed his shuriken, the chains taut, blocking both attacks with a bone-jarring clang, the ground cracking beneath him. His scarlet eyes burned, unyielding, as he twisted, flinging the shuriken free, forcing them back. Blood trickled from a shallow cut on his arm, the sting sharp but ignored. Four against one. Olbap strategy is good for his age.
The forest became a battlefield, alive with the cacophony of war—branches snapping, leaves swirling, the ground churning into mud. Popeye's hammer slammed down again, Rane dodging by inches, the blow splintering a tree root with a crack that echoed like thunder.
Liro's cutlass whistled from the side, grazing Rane's vest, tearing fabric and drawing blood. Rane countered, his shuriken spinning back, slicing a low branch that fell with a crash. Toro's mace swung, its spikes tearing through the air; Rane leaped, his scarf fluttering, kicking Toro's arm, the impact sending a jolt through both. Kael's axe aimed low, targeting Rane's legs, but he flipped, his chains whipping out to entangle the blade, yanking Kael off-balance.
Blood sprayed as Liro's cutlass nicked Rane's side, the pain sharp, his vest now tattered. He spat red, his breath ragged, but his mind stayed sharp.
They're relentless, but I'm not done. He charged, his shuriken whirling, chains lashing like serpents. The fight dragged on, the clearing a maelstrom of steel and blood. Popeye's hammer connected with Rane's crossed arms, the impact like a cannon, sending him skidding back, his bones screaming. A mace to his shoulder, a cutlass slash across his chest—pain seared through him, his vision blurring. Olbap's a genius, he thought, cursing. This was planned to perfection.
The moon climbed higher, its light cold and unforgiving, illuminating the carnage. Rane's strength waned, his movements slowing, blood pooling beneath him. He fell to one knee, his scarlet eyes dimming, his scarf stained red. "You win… this time," he rasped, defiance in his voice. "but you think i go out along" said Rane with a smile on his lips
The four froze, exchanging wary glances, searching the shadowed trees for signs of a trap. Was Rane bluffing, or had he planned for this? Popeye tightened his grip on his hammer, Kael's axe glinted as he scanned the darkness, Liro and Toro shifting into defensive stances.
Rane's tense movements as he struggled to his feet, blood dripping onto the moss, signaled he wasn't finished. His scarlet eyes burned with a fierce resolve, his hand twitching toward a hidden knife. The air grew thick with anticipation, the forest holding its breath.
ready for a second round.